Only Sherlock
by ContraryMaryBee
Summary: A one-shot collection wherein the escapades, emotional roller coasters, wonderful lovey dovey moments, sexy hot and heavy moments, and many more are all wrapped up together, spewed like gas from my mind.
1. Chapter 1

Three!

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Living with Sherlock

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Come to the station as soon as possible. SH

No, I mean come now. SH

John, I need you to be here. SH

They're being idiots John. SH

John sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes, waiting in the lift to bring him up to Lestrade's division. Bloody Sherlock just demands all the time, no care for John who was having a pleasant evening watching the telly with his tea. The detective was going to owe him for this.

Though, when John stepped out and heard the shouting and hollering being done, the poor receptionists looking terrified, John was glad he came. He could see Sherlock, gesturing wildly, storming out of Lestrade's office, Greg, and another new man followed, both scowling viciously.

"I don't even know why I bother with this useless department, fools, the whole of you!" Sherlock was snarling, "How could you be so _dense_! There is no reason to bring this kind of intervention on me, _me_!"

Lestrade tried to take a bit of control, "Now, Sherlock stop being ridiculous. It's a normal investigation-"

But Sherlock didn't want to listen it seemed, "What are you going to do without me you bloody buffoons? No wonder your wives ar-" John decided to interrupt this before it got too personal.

"_Sherlock_ Holmes!" John barked, glaring harshly at his lover. It pleased John to see Sherlock's back suddenly ramrod straight, Greg and the new important looking man glancing at him in surprise. The entire floor stilled, breathless, as John Watson lost his temper. John didn't let any of his emotions show on his face, and simply marched straight up to Sherlock. He was all military now, no doctor, or sweet fuzzy John anymore. Sherlock seemed to realize this, as a sort of impending doom look appeared on his face.

Sherlock cleared his throat, "John…" John cut a hand through the air for silence, and Sherlock shut up.

"I think we've all had enough of your tongue Sherlock, be silent." John stopped, with a click of his heels, and turned to Greg and the other man for an explanation. Lestrade looked like he was fighting a salute, while the other man seemed to be recovering his pomp.

He drew himself up, "You are interrupting a private conversation, Mr…" he allowed a pause for John to introduce himself, trying vainly to take control of the situation.

"Captain John H. Watson, medical doctor." John kept his chin lifted and bored holes in this man's head, "Your name?" He held out a hand for a firm shake.

"Detective Jones, doctor. I'm here to investigate Lestrade's extravagant use of an amateur consulter in his cases." Jones managed to control himself. Sherlock made to open his mouth before John shot him a look. To the amazement of the taskforce, Sherlock pursed his lips and looked at the floor, like a petulant child.

"How about, we move back into Greg's office, and you three explain to me, why in god's name you were acting like three children bickering in the school yard." John's voice was cold and hard.

Once standing in the relative privacy of the Office, John stood with his feet apart and his arms crossed. Greg leaned on his desk, Jones matched John, and Sherlock flitted from place to place.

"Ok, Let's start at the beginning shall we?" John _dared_ any of them to speak otherwise.

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John sighed, trying vainly to ignore Sherlock's hero-worshipping gaze as they exited the cab. "Stop staring Sherlock, it's getting old."

"John," Sherlock whispered in as near to glee as John had ever seen, "You called the regional inspector a ninny. Ninny! Then sat him down and told him in 'no uncertain terms, Mr. Jones, to ever act so unprofessional again"" Sherlock mimicked John's stern voice.

Smiling reluctantly at his lover, John allowed a bit of the self-impressed side of himself to slip out. "It was quite good, wasn't it?"

Sherlock flailed, "Yes!" his eyes were bright as he stared at John like the smaller man had just solved a case all on his own. It made John feel nice.

They entered the flat, and for the rest of the day, John kept catching Sherlock gazing at him with a proud little smile on his face. A smug, possessive, proud little smile.

_That's my army doctor_, that smile says, _that's my little commander_.

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awwwee


	2. Chapter 2

Four!

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Living with Sherlock

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"Great buggering fuck, Sherlock! You can't keep doing this!" John nearly shouted, rage making his nostrils flare and his hands clench into tight, tight fists. What was he yelling about? Oh, just the fact that Sherlock housed his experimental human body parts in the fridge again, only neglected to figure that opening rotting, non-sealed human carcass would quickly and efficiently turn every other item in the fridge bad. That included the milk John had just reached for, the vegetables he had naively bought for supper one night this week, and all the rest of the food, EVEN THE JAM, that John had wished to eat.

"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed, not even paying attention. John felt his anger incandesce into the very real want to hit Sherlock in the face till he was bloody. Sucking in a sharp breath that was loud in the flat, John snapped his heels together and made a quick march to his jacket hanging on the back of his chair. Chucking the scarf he found atop it away to a corner, Sherlock's scarf, not where it was supposed to be. It was _his_ chair_, John's_ chair, which was filled with experimental dishes, notes, and John's laptop which Sherlock had uncaringly dumped there.

He was halfway out the door putting his jacket on when Sherlock deemed to ask, "Where are you going? John? Where…"

"I'm done with this Sherlock!" John snapped, too angry to even think. He slammed the door on his way out, "I'm done with it all, done!" It was later that he would realize what exactly he said, what he meant, and what Sherlock thought he meant.

Back in the flat, Sherlock seemed frozen to his chair, staring with wide eyes at the closed door. John never slammed doors, never. He never made any unnecessary sound either, one of those military habits of his. But he had just watched John yell, stomp, throw things, and even slam the door all in sixty seconds.

Something hollow filled Sherlock's chest until he couldn't breathe. As though someone had kicked him, the long man flew out of his chair, threw open the window and half hanged out of it to catch sight of John, and John's direction.

Breathing heavily, Sherlock clenched the window sill when he could see nothing of John. He had disappeared in the few seconds it had taken Sherlock to get up and out of the chair.

Oh he had ruined it this time. He had done it, done something so bad that John had said, had said-!

Gripping his hair harshly, Sherlock tried to kick his brain into thinking, it seemed to be strangely stuck on the sight of John's back storming out the door, stuck hearing again and again, 'I'm done with you Sherlock! I'm done!'.

John had left, oh God, John had left. Sherlock couldn't _THINK_. Where would John go? Not to that one girlfriend he had gone to before, that ship had sailed. Not to Mycroft, Sherlock was sure of that. Not Lestrade, he was out of town. John didn't know his wife well enough. Mrs. Hudson? Maybe, maybe John had been faking, and had just gone downstairs.

Yes, that's a good idea, a smart idea, let's go check that Sherlock.

Striding quickly to the door, Sherlock carefully opened it, John had slammed it fairly hard and it wasn't the strongest of doors. Then when it was open he looked at it, narrowing his eyes. It would have to be gotten rid of. Sherlock would never stand to see it closed, ever again.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He hollered, his voice booming. "Mrs. Hud-Son!" she puttered out to meet him on his way down, he swept straight past, asking quickly, "Have you seen John?"

"John?" the old woman blinked in confusion, "Well I heard him shouting at you a while ago, dear, what did you do?" she turned on him, finger waving, "It takes quite a lot to get Dr. John Watson in such a tiff, and when I didn't hear you running out after him I thought maybe he had given you a whollop. But then I realized that John would never hit you, so tell me, what did you do dear?" Mrs. Hudson looked concerned; she hated it when her boys fought.

Sherlock's carefully blank face crumpled, and his desperation welled up in him again. Now that he found Mrs. Hudson's floor empty of anything John-looking, Sherlock didn't know what to do again. His mind resumed that terrible melody, 'I'm done, Sherlock! Just, fucking done!''

"I don't know!" he nearly wailed, startling his landlady so bad her jewelry jingled, "I don't know but he's gone! John's gone!"

Alarmed, Mrs. Hudson reached out and steadied Sherlock seemed to waver from side to side. "Have you called him dear? He may have cooled off by now." It was obvious Sherlock had sat in a stupor for longer than a few seconds.

Call him! Of course! Why didn't Sherlock think of that? His phone was upstairs, and he had never climbed those stairs so fast in his life.

John, come home. SH

After he sent it, Sherlock realized that it wasn't necessarily nice, so he tried again.

Please, John? Come home? SH

I'm sorry. SH

Which was in his opinion, more than enough, he didn't even know what he was sorry for. (Though, if he thought about it, Sherlock found he had a lot of things to be sorry for)

John, where are you? It's nearly dark. SH

John, please.

Where did you go? I can come to you?

John, PLEASE, I LOVE YOU

Quickly becoming frantic once more, Sherlock gave in and called. Two seconds ticked by like eternities and then he went straight to John's voicemail. He had turned off his phone. Crumpling to the couch, Sherlock's mind went over time, delving into every worst possibility there could possibly be.

John was hurt, and now lay bleeding somewhere, his phone broken. John had turned it off and now was getting slowly sloshed until he got robbed, or hurt. John was dead. John was alive, but not coming back. John was not. Coming. Back. He was leaving him, John Watson was leaving and not coming back, he could manage without his things, the man was a soldier. What was going to stop him from simply catching a train and leaving London, or after that England? What would Sherlock do?

Well, Sherlock would go find him.

But what if John didn't want him to, what if he was done, he said so. Done with Sherlock.

Well….well… Sherlock didn't know what to say to his inner voice, the thought that John didn't want him, was finally fed up, was sick of him (as Sherlock always knew he would be, some day), and never wanted to see him again made him speechless. A crushing pit of endless despair and self-loathing rose up to engulf Sherlock, causing him to breath faster, dig his head into his knees hard enough to bruise, and for his hands to shake.

He was such a monster. He drove John away, what was _wrong_ with him?! John, perfect, wonderful John, and he had made him so angry, so disappointed that the kind army doctor gave up. Gave up on Sherlock.

He never paid enough attention to John, Sherlock surmised, within his deep tank of blackness; he never showed John how much he loved him. Always with the cases, and the experiments, ruining John's stuff, dragging him around with no thanks. Even still with this lover/relationship thing, he didn't do enough. God, he _knew_ it! He had never been one for love, and now that he actually felt it, he fucked it up so bad that object of his love, that _obsession_ of it, left him of his own accord.

Oh, god, John.

John.

"Sherlock?"

John.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" That was John's voice, and John's hand pulling his own away from his hair. Sherlock's scalp stung, he had been tearing at his own head.

Craning up to see, Sherlock stared in shock as John; actual, physical John knelt down with concern for Sherlock. He didn't deserve it.

"John." Oh, his voice broke, and now John was looking alarmed.

"What's wrong love?" oh, his doctor was so gentle, so kind, "Sherlock, just tell me!"

"You didn't have your phone on." Sherlock whispered, trying vainly to take that desperate, broken thread out of it. John frowned.

"My phone's charging Sherlock, over here." John stood, went and unplugged his phone, which was sitting innocently on the desk. Sherlock felt embarrassment creep up on him, horror, as John turned his phone on and waited for the white screen to clear. Another part of Sherlock had him frozen, just staring; trying to claw himself out of the deep pit he had fallen into, because John was here. He had been so silly.

John stood frozen, cycling through the texts, and the missed call notification. John, please. Where did you go? I'm sorry.

"Oh, Sherlock." John breathed, looking back at his lover on the couch, who had not yet moved from his curled up position, eyes wide and carefully staring away from John. Making a decision, John dropped his phone, advanced on Sherlock and climbed up onto his lap, forcing him to lean back. Plopping down, John went about cradling Sherlock in his arms, kissing gently along those cheekbones, tightening his hold until the taller man was cramped up under his chin, arms in and just surrounded by John.

"I love you, you great fool. When I say I'm done, I mean of the present instance, of that day, never, ever, about you. I will never be done with you, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock Trembled, and John put his lips atop his ear, "you can think all you want that I will eventually leave, that I'll get fed up with you and leave, but you will realize, when we're old, wrinkly, grey, and unable to chew food that you. Were. Wrong." Sherlock stilled, probably struck by the image of the two of them, old, eating mashed foods, still together, "because I am never letting you go."

John continued to hold Sherlock until the other breathed normally again, and fought ot lean back. Sherlock had taken careful control of his face, but his eyes betrayed him, red around the edges, full of appreciation, love, and near worship. He cleared his throat, slipping his own arms around the smaller man; Sherlock leaned back in and rested his chin on the sturdy shoulder.

"Right." Sherlock breathed, "You're always right."

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Eeeeeee….. panicky Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

Six!

John's had a bad day.

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Living with Sherlock

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John has had the worst day, in a long time. Sure, it started out sunny. Then the subway was late. He got to work on time, but it was full of sick children. Every single mother in the city seemed to want their little darling's cough and sniffles checked out, on that day, _right fucking now_.

So John worked, like the hard worker he is, dodging angry mothers, getting puked on by one infuriated child, bit, slapped once even (the mother didn't like his diagnosis of "It's just a common cold ma'am."), for a long nine hours. Two hours over his set shift, then he had to train home once more, with all the rest of the classy businessmen, smelling of vomit.

Then, to make matters worse, the second he stepped out of the over-crowded tin can, it started to rain. John, feeling optimistic this morning, didn't grab a jacket, or an umbrella. So, he sloshed home in London's wonderful watery conditions, looking forward tohot tea, a cozy fire, and a moping Sherlock. Peace, and silence.

But alas, John Watson's bad day was not over.

"What the bloody hell is this?!" John lost his temper. "_Sherlock_!" Cops and cars swarmed 221B Baker Street, and he stormed up the stairs, soaked, smelly, and looking right about to murder.

Sherlock was standing, his hands on his slim hips as all around him, uniformed men and women were digging through all their stuff.

"John." Sherlock said, eyes wide, and looking startlingly like a frightened rabbit. John, on the other hand, stood fuming like a charging thunderstorm, just set to explode.

"John!" Lestrade pushed his way out of the kitchen, where people were tossing around _John's_ tea, and _John's_ jam. "There was an anonymous, reliable tip off, drug bust, sorry, mate." Lestrade seemed to sense the oncoming explosion, as his voice got smaller and smaller until he trailed off.

John breathed heavily, closing his eyes, resisting the urge to just _break_ _shit_. Growling, he decided to ignore it all, and calm himself down. Stalking to the bookshelf, he stripped himself of his soaked jumper and shoes, shoved quite violently, a young cadet out of the way, and grabbed a slim green book off the shelf.

Prying it open, the pages glued together and a box cut out of the middle, John reached into his secret compartment and pulled out….Sherlock's cigarettes.

"John-?" Sherlock spoke, but was cut off when John slammed the book closed in his hand and tossed it on the floor where a pile had been pushed off, probably by the same frightened young cadet he glared at now.

"Lighter." He barked at the young man, who maybe was in his twenties, and maybe half a hand taller than John. The kid looked around for help, backed into the corner by the irritable John Watson. "Lighter!" John raised his voice, clipping it out like a command he would give his soldiers.

Someone saved the kid, tossed him a lighter sneakily, and he handed it to John. People had stopped moving, and all of them watched John, the normally kind, gentle John stalk to his chair, collapse into it, and deftly light a cig and take a _long_ drag. Sherlock licked his lips, and put a hand on John's knee, silently both offering his assistance and trying vainly to smell more of the cig smoke.

"Make me some tea." John said, voice tight, "and make these fuckers get out of here."

Lestrade shifted, "John, we still need to take a look-" "Greg!" John rarely raised his voice, so when he did it was a shock.

"Please, go." John hid his face in his hand, and Lestrade figured it would be a good thing to listen to the doctor. It was probably Anderson who made the call even, the git.

"Alright John," Sherlock soothed, "the kettles on, they're on their way out, everything's fine." Just like he knew everything, Sherlock knew his voice was pleasing, and it seemed to do something for John, whose shoulders slumped and he took a nice drag out of the cigarette, letting the smoke out slowly and watching it rise to the ceiling.

Sherlock was intrigued, he had never suspected John smoked, but it was probably just a stress relief, used only for the direst of situations. The investigators left quickly, Lestrade nodding to Sherlock as he closed the door, finally, finally leaving them in peace. John sighed out with a groan, smoke billowing out of mouth, clad in just his jeans and a shirt, barefooted, head tilted back and eyes closed. A wonderful pleasurable heat twanged in Sherlock's stomach, and as they waited for the kettle to boil, he slid himself behind John and rubbed at his neck.

"My tiny little commander, my little captain, my John." Sherlock murmured, smiling. John hummed and snorted at the names, but made no other move.

"Let's make John Watson's day better." And Sherlock Holmes did, oh, he did.

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I can't get enough of tiny little powerful BAMF John.


	4. Chapter 4

To serve my muse, and my recent obsession, I figured I would get it out of me using this! I love oneshots! YAY.

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Living with Sherlock

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John grunted, heaving Sherlock into one of the chairs in front of Lestrade's desk. The taller man went with little grumble, his eyes wide and darting everywhere. Lestrade himself sighed and put a hand over his face.

"How is it Sherlock," John started, voice carefully controlled, "That you managed to not only drug half of Greg's task force, but also the killer, and yourself?" Sherlock's head fell back and he slumped, sliding in the chair so he could look at John without the effort of turning his head.

"But Jawn!" Sherlock slurred, "I caught him! Aren't you going to say I'm brilliant?" He even pouted. Trying very hard not to let his amusement twist his lips into a grin, John took a glance at Lestrade, whose hand still covered his face, but his mouth was twitching into a grin behind it.

Clearing his throat, John employed his impeccable self-control, "Yes, it was well done Sherlock, but you lost points with the drug."

Sherlock sulked, his bottom lip thrusting out and his chin falling to his chest in unhappiness, "Just wanted to try it out." He sounded vaguely like a child being punished. It pulled at John's over large heart.

"Alright Sherlock, I am proud of you, just don't do it again." He said sternly, and Lestrade's shoulders shook in response. Sherlock turned his face back to John and gave him the most heart-warming smile he had ever done. It was open, a somewhat out of focus, but also so _genuine_ that John's own mouth slipped into a smile.

"Jawn," Sherlock said, head lolling around the chair, his hand coming up to scratch at his face, ending in smacking himself, "Why is Boron such a brute, while Iron is so silky?" John blinked.

"I…I don't know?" he answered, looking at Lestrade again, who had taken to holding his own mouth shut in glee. Sherlock made a "Huh." Like sound, something that had never escaped him before. Then he made a grab for John which ended with Sherlock on his knees leaning heavily into John's legs.

"You're so strong Jawn," Sherlock said sleepily, "My strong Jawn." John's mouth quivered and his face grew red when Lestrade couldn't control himself any longer, and a snicker burst forth.

"Oi!" came a voice from outside, sounding furious, "What the hell was that you freak, I've only just got those infected some medical help, what did you—" Donovan stopped short upon entered, when she found Sherlock blearily smiling up at her, curled like a cat around John's feet.

"Sally!" Sherlock greeted, winding an arm up John's leg like a snake. Donovan looked like she didn't know what to do. John was having too much fun to consider being embarrassed. At least until Sherlock opened his mouth again.

"Have you met Jawn?" Sherlock smiled again, something that made Donovan blink, "He's my John, my wonderful army-doctor of death." John laughed, leaning down to untangle the lanky man from his legs. Lestrade gave him a hand hauling the consulting detective up from the ground, and from there, Sherlock grasped John's shoulders and stared into his face seriously.

"That's not right, something's missing. I mean, I know you're full of metal John but there's no need to be angry." With his voice deepening to a musing tilt and his slur all but gone, Sherlock winded his arms around John's shoulders and buried his face in his hair, gently carding through it with his smile and his long fingers. Normally John would revel in this, but not with both Lestrade and Donovan gaping at him in the middle of the office. Sherlock hummed some classical tune, before squeezing John so hard he lifted his feet off the floor.

John's face turned bright red when Sherlock, a few minutes ago sleepy on the ground, laughed joyously in his ear and without a stumble spun him around like a doll.

"My teddy bear of death is what you are, John. Because you're so warm and soft and squishy on the outside, but you don't let me cuddle you enough. You were in the army john." Sherlock informed him, as if he didn't know, "you kill people. That means you are a bear of death, but a doctor too. My John is so special." And Sherlock was back to being sleepy, lolling onto John's shoulders like he was a pillar.

His face bright red, but happiness swelling in his chest, John calmly asked Lestrade to help him and Sherlock out to a taxi. He also inquired Donovan about what to do with this drug, if she knew anything.

Sherlock continued mumbling, the entire way home, sometimes about John, other times about the periodic table, and other completely clear and succinct times on the case they had just finished. With Mrs. Hudson already in bed, John hauled Sherlock up the stairs and sat him on the couch, he was half asleep. Not particularly feeling up to dragging the other all the way through the experiment laden kitchen into his bedroom, John just put on a kettle, feeling like he needed something hot.

Groaning, Sherlock put a hand over his face. "Jooohn." He lengthened his name, "My head hurts."

"You realize that's your own fault right?" John answered with a sigh.

"No, you must have dropped me." Sherlock answered, and John gave an incredulous laugh.

"I dropped you? No, I think that was you falling on the ground to love at my feet. You silly man, right in Lestrade's office too!" John carried out his biscuits and tea to Sherlock, who had wormed his way into the cushion crease. Lightly rubbing Sherlock's back, he offered it to him, rewarded when Sherlock shuffled enough he could sit.

After a quiet minute eating at some ungodly hour, after a particularly crazy case, John felt exhaustion creep up on him, and Sherlock's eyes dimmed and weighed down.

"John, I'm sorry." Sherlock murmured, something obviously still affecting his brain. John blinked in surprise.

"What could you be sorry for, Sherlock? Drugging yourself? You don't have to apologize to me." Indulging himself while Sherlock was regrettably unable to stop him, John swept his fingers through his flatmate's hair, and caressed his angular face. Sherlock sighed and leaned into him harder, nearly shoving John off the couch.

"I called you a teddy bear." Sherlock struggled to say, trying to focus his blinking eyes on John's face. Moving so Sherlock was lying on the couch, head pillowed on a convenient jacket, John slipped form his grasp. Soothing the frown lines that arose, John smiled.

Sherlock's lips moved but no sound came and his eyes were shut. John gave one last pat to the tall man's head before turning out the lights and climbing to his own room. Idly to himself, probably an aftereffect of the drug or of sleep deprivation ran through his mind. He should take Sherlock to build-a-bear sometime.

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Now, wasn't that cute. I'm always curious what Lestrade recorded when Irene drugged him! Does anybody have any ideas?

Thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

Ten!

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Living with Sherlock

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There were times where John felt overlooked. It wasn't something he would call attention to, ever, but still, it prodded at him. Like a sliver in the foot.

He knew Sherlock could fill up a room with his presence, knew he demanded attention t all times and John was happy to give it. But it was times where even Sherlock seemed to forget he was there that John chafed at. He would purse his lips, stand to the side, and allow everyone else to converse or play. Then, when he felt they were aware of him again he could put his own opinion in, and they would treat them as if he had never disappeared.

But sometimes they jumped. Lestrade would blink and look at him wonderingly. Molly would squeak and then blush in embarrassment. Sherlock would turn to him, listen, and then return to whatever he was doing.

There was one time John didn't feel like dealing with it. So when they all got into talking, arguing, forgetting he was there, he left. He went home. And then he waited for Sherlock to realize, Sherlock, who was supposed to be his partner, his lover, his significant other.

It took a disappointing two hours.

In that time John cycled through anger, sadness, loneliness, and forgiveness. It was difficult to keep his thoughts straight but ended up on two ideas.

He was upset at Sherlock for the most part, upset and unhappy.

He didn't know how to fix it, so he couldn't possibly ask Sherlock to.

Just starting to curl up in front of the telly, uncharacteristically wearing Sherlock's blue dressing gown, John heard his phone beep. Sighing he went and got it, feeling absurdly wrapped up in sherlcok, the gown so large for him it went past his hands and batted at his ankles.

Where are you? SH

Baker Street. J

Why did you leave? SH

Of course the bastard would go for the hard question. How would he explain this without his lover's overly large brain getting the wrong gist of it? John sighed, rubbing at his face. So he opted for short and to the point.

If you're done just come home. J

On my way. SH

Well at least there was time to figure out what to say, and nearly twenty minutes later, John had gotten nowhere. Everything he could think of to say would either offend or depress Sherlock, who was always complaining of his own lack of skill at love relationships.

John heard the door open and close the coat being up onto the hook, the steps coming up the stairs and then Sherlock entered, and as always seemed to draw all the light to him, leaving John in the metaphorical dark. He seemed troubled, eyes darkened, brow lowered, mouth turned down into a frown.

John hadn't moved, so he knew that Sherlock was seeing the army doctor, curled up like a child in his leather chair wearing his blue robe. John figured he looked a little more pitiful that what he felt, but he allowed Sherlock his assumptions. His deductions at any rate would say a few things.

"John." Sherlock said, carefully lowering himself into John's squishy comfy chair opposite the leather modern one John inhabited.

"Sherlock." John answered as he would any other day, watching the detective search for words.

John took pity on him. He smiled, somewhat sadly, "Don't worry Sherlock, I'm not mad at you." Some of the tension in the other's shoulders bled out, but he still had that careful, considering look on his face.

Crossing his arms over himself, dragging the silky smooth blue housecoat tighter John tried to formulate his thoughts into words.

"It's kind of…everything." John said, brows creasing, "working, going on cases, our relationship, my own bloody insecurities." He snorted, "Everything." And he just looked so forlorn, that Sherlock's chest yearned to envelope him. So, he did what any Sherlock would do, he listened and enveloped John. Literally.

Climbing up into the leather modern chair, thanking its low arm rests, Sherlock slid his body as close to John as possible, feeling the other stiffen at first, and then just melt. His arms went around John's broad shoulders, turning him so he curled sideways into Sherlock, the detective's long legs on either side of the good doctor. Propping his chin on John's head, Sherlock drew him in until Sherlock nearly cocooned him with his body.

John sighed, rubbing his head into Sherlock's collarbones like a cat, trying to climb into his skin. With his arms curled up on each side of Sherlock, not around him, his legs crunched, somehow comfortably under one of Sherlock's and the detective doing everything in his long limbed power to surround John, the doctor felt like a child. A comforted, content, loved child and he felt no shame in it.

After John gave out a large sigh, coming to a rest on his chest, Sherlock allowed them both a moment of serenity. It was always amazing, holding John, Sherlock mused. He always felt he held the most important thing in the country when he did so. He was the most important thing to Sherlock at any rate.

"My John, you're everything to me." Sherlock rumbled, nearly silent, "isn't that enough?"

It took a moment, but John's head, nestled warmly under his chin, ear pressed to a beating heart, nodded.

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Cuteness!


	6. Chapter 6

Two!

Here's another one! Did I mention I take requests?

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Living with Sherlock

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Why, oh god why. John's ears flamed red as he was ushered up on the little impromptu stage with the other army cadent Halloween-ists. He thought it would be a good one, a laugh, to dress as an army man when they went to this god awful party.

It was a favor to someone they had solved a case for returning some priceless tapestries from some street thief gang. Sherlock, during one of his manic moods had decided to accept the invitation, and dressed as a vampire.

Now, having seen the lanky man's costume, John couldn't let the man out of his sight and into the ravenous public's greedy hands. He had to protect that luscious, long body, even if that meant dressing up for a fancy dress party.

So, here he was, mildly tipsy from the drinks provided, dressed in his army fatigues, with Sherlock grinning at him from off the side. Women and some men whooped and hollered at him and the four other boys who dressed army-style. John traded glances with them, unsurprisingly only one was a veteran like John, and they exchanged respectful nods.

There was a man with a microphone who spoke to the crowd, dressed as a werewolf…or lion. John wasn't sure which.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the London Storehouse! Welcome to your first show of the night. These boys here, will open the night as a favor to our fantastic curator, Miss Leiselle!" The woman they had gotten the tapestries for raised her glass with a smirk, thanking him. John squinted against the bright lights to see her, but was distracted when Sherlock took a seat next to her, crossing long legging-clad legs, his white belly showcasing his lean build in that horridly sexy half-shirt.

Fangs glinted at him and curiously, John wondered how he could see Sherlock so well when the lights were so bright. The host clapped a hand on John's shoulder and leaned into him. He smelt like the drinks John had been downing, but he looked half-drunk than what John felt.

"What's your name, soldier?" the man asked into the microphone, and people quieted to hear his answer. Indulging in his booze induced mind, John let his inner demon play out.

"Captain John Watson, MD." He answered his voice deeper than normal. He slid his shirt sleeves up to his elbows and stuck his thumbs into his trousers. Girls giggled and men sighed. Sherlock made no hearable noise, but John could feel his interest double.

"Oh!" the man said, as some girls cheered, "A real soldier then! Tell me, John, how old are you?" John raised an eyebrow, and somebody swooned in the crowd. Sherlock leaned forward intently.

"Nearly forty." He said, mouth twisting in mild reproach. Honestly, John thought that would tame the crowd a bit. Instead, someone cried out, "Lookin' good for forty!" and someone else wolf-whistled. John rolled his eyes and the host moved onto the other boys.

His ears still burning hot, John tried to ignore the fact that he was on a stage, and only clued in to its use when the host decided to get the…show…started.

"Now, boys, guess what?" he smiled wickedly, his wolf makeup shifting funnily, "To win free admission to one of three high star clubs within the city, as well as a limousine ride with four friends, the winning soldier has to give a nice strip and dance for the crowd." John stared at him, deaf to the raucous cheering of the crowd, very aware of Sherlock's eyes on his body.

"No, no, no, no," the host chided as one of the young men tried to flee, "you came up onto the stage, you gotta do it. Hit the music!" the light dimmed from John and focused on the lad farthest from him. Deep booming music filled the ballroom they stood in, a gyrating, hard, very feral sound that raised John's hackles and charged the room with sexual energy. John and the other army men watched as the poor boy took a gander at dancing. He was in good shape, fit body, but the only move he seemed to know was circling his hips suggestively. Clothing was flung off as he finished with a flourish, standing in only his pants to the laughter and cheering of the rest of the hall.

Then, they moved to the next one and it dawned on John that he would be last, as such, the finale. Locking eyes with Sherlock, he took in the taller man's challenging smirk and gave one of his own. There was such a thing as underestimation, and John has been underestimated more times than he could count. Something to do with his small stature, John thought, made bigger men more confident.

But if there was nothing else John could do, he can impress. He wasn't an army doctor for nothing. Time to impress the unflappable Sherlock Holmes.

That same beat continued through the rest of the boys, changing slightly for each one, just to give a different taste. Then, the shine of the light fell on John, the other boys moving away, and the beat changing ever so slightly to give a gritty tone to it. Something harder, tougher…rougher.

As people screamed, John just let his smirk show, one canine poking out in a half-smile that made many women sigh. John wasn't all that familiar with dancing, but he had done a few things in his youth. And if anything else, John had the kind of presence that just _made_ people notice him.

First, he nonchalantly unbuttoned the top few buttons of his over coat, waiting for a drop in the music. Once it hit, John ripped the bottom few buttons off as he tore the coat off him, stripping the sleeves from his arms behind his back. Nodding his head in a loll to the left then to right along with the song, John swaggered into the middle of the stage, hips and shoulders moving like something powerful, something dangerous.

To the crowd, it seemed like John had suddenly turned a switch, and BAM, he was _terrifying_, in a lustful, incredibly arousing way.

Waiting for a break in the music, John stopped in the center, grinned rakishly at the crowd, grabbed his belt and gave it a good pull when the music boomed out again. The buckle dangled, allowing his trousers to slip a bit and show the black band of his tight boxer shorts. People screamed. John gave a half laugh and shook his head at the crowd. Sherlock was standing now, on the feet rest of his seat in order to see him better. The woman next to him smiled evilly.

John prowled forward again and fell to his knees, spreading them so the loose fabric of his trousers would stretch and slip just that much more. Taking hold of the bottom of his short-sleeve, the small army doctor lifted it up off his body in a smooth motion, hips revolving in a grinding circular motion that was subtle, but really not.

John knew there was just the hint of scar tissue in view on his shoulder. It seemed like the resounding screams, cheers, and whistles reached a critical point in approval and all John could see, when he put his arms behind his neck, still locked in the shirt, was Sherlock. Sherlock, who looked ready to devour him, mouth open, eyes burning.

John threw the shirt into the crowd, turning his back to show the play of muscles (he'd recently got back into the gym, if only one or two days a week) and the spidery, primal scar that curved over his shoulder where the bullet exited. There was another rush from the crowd. It was a long time ago that John felt self-conscious of his scar, but this odd, non-Sherlockian, appreciation for it stroked his ego.

He knew the song was winding down now; John had lasted longer than the others to keep his trousers on, and honestly, he had no plan to take them off, but once he turned around, the beat went into its last repetition, this one faster.

John slid his hands down his chest, locking eyes with Sherlock during this last move. Stepping forward in a sway from side to side with the beat, John's shoulders bunched and his biceps flexed as he move his hands down his body closer and closer to his boxer line. Smirking when he reached his trouser beltline, John continued to step forward, clenching his abs and slipping his hands down into his trousers, outside his pants, but obviously groping himself.

Sherlock snarled, actually snarled. His nose scrunched up, his teeth bared and his eyes burned two holes in John. Grinning darkly at his success at finally ruffling the man, John shamelessly grabbed at his half-hard cock (that was the effect of Sherlock's eyes, and of course the appreciation from the crowd), and gripped his inner thigh, right over Sherlock's latest marking. It gave a pleasurable sting. Sherlock went wild, gripping his own hair with a tight fist, another fist pushing insistently at the bulge in those tight-as-sin leggings, and that snarl again, lengthening, his eyes widening so he actually looked insane with want.

Seeing Sherlock go so out of focus, and at the feeling of this debased, drunken act of his, heady off the viciousness of the crowd John threw his head back and _laughed_. A deep, growling sort of laugh you'd hear from some evil, seductive villain. The music cut out on one final deep, dark note, and the lights flashed out to pure darkness.

When they slowly pulsed back on, John was picking up his coat from the stage, buckling up his belt, amid the cries and pleads of the crowd. The other boys, two who had left their shirts off shook his hand. John, coming out of that strange haze he had slipped into felt his face blush hard this time. Considering his shirt a lost cause, he slipped the cameo over shirt over his arms again, leaving it open due to no buttons. He kept it pushed up to the elbows, and actually, felt quite good about himself.

"Hoooooooy boy!" cried the announcer, popping up onto the stage like some sort of daisy. His eyes were alight, "I don't think there's a competition here! But let's give it a fair trial, then?" He called for the crowd to scream the loudest for their favorite dancer, as they were called up onto the stage. The other younger boys did get their fair share of calls, John's ears felt ready to pop…then he was called up.

By far, John got the loudest, longest chorus of screams, whistles, cries, even sobs. Blushing terribly, John put a hand over his face, feeling as though eyes were just devouring his entire body.

Later, once the crowd had dispensed again, and John was left alone, at least until Sherlock came up to his back. One pale, long fingered hand slid over his chest, hips pressing against his back, and Sherlock's curly head bending close to John's neck to breathe him in.

John chuckled in his chest, known the feeling of it vibrating through him turned Sherlock on. "Did you like it? I did it for you." John smiled dirtily, when Sherlock growled against him.

Sherlock bit him, and it was so different with those little vampire fangs that John gasped, loving the sharp pain from them.

"You are never doing that outside the bedroom again. Nobody else can see that. If I could murder all these people, just so there was no one else to remember you moving like that, I would." Sherlock's voice was a deadly promise, and it should have bothered John. But really, that velvet, deep voice being so possessive of him? All it did was turn his half-mast into solid rock.

"Did you see me grab that marking you left?" John tilted his head back to whisper into Sherlock's curved ear, "that property of Sherlock Holmes bite in my most, _private_, place? I touched it and it hurt and no one knew." Sherlock breathed in so sharp, John was surprised he didn't get a nosebleed. But then, he was being ushered out of the hall, to be thrown into a cab, carried up the steps to the flat, then properly marked again by Sherlock that no place of his skin was free of something Sherlock.

What a glorious night.

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Woo! Raunchy. But I had the best dream of this, wouldn't you lot just loooove to see Dr. Watson so blatantly sexual? A wonderful fangirl's hope.


	7. Chapter 7

Nine!

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Living with Sherlock

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John hummed and hawed as he turned this way and that. Every way he looked in the mirror it glared out at him. Frowning, John flexed, of course seeing the muscles define themselves a bit but that thing still remained. Turning his attention elsewhere, he studied his face. He had a big nose, a low brow. Honestly, he had such a square face too; you could use it as a stone brick. Weathered, tired, and getting more and more wrinkled daily.

Hawing again, John turned and examined his backside. It was small, but lush, and only sagging a little. Except when he clenched, and then they sucked up to this pert little thing he thought looked quite out of place.

Continuing to peruse himself in the mirror, John failed to notice Sherlock lean in at the doorway and watch him until he made a disparaging sound.

"Do that bum thing again, I enjoyed that." His lover's deep voice asked, completely straight faced. Feeling his ears turn hot, John stonily looked away and reached for his clothing, that ones he was going to put on after his shower until he got distracted, wondering at his naked body. Wondering wasn't really the term though, it was more of…picking, prodding, sighing, bemoaning his army days when he was younger, fitter, less…squishy.

Sherlock made another disagreeing sound and he crossed to fling the clothes away. He turned John so he was standing naked again in front of him, both facing the mirror.

"Just look at you John, so beautiful." Compared to the striking features of the taller man, John was incredulous. So he gave a snort, and looked amused up into Sherlock's eyes.

"Appealing, maybe, mildly cute, somewhat attractive. Nothing like you." John answered, never getting tired of the sight of those sculpted cheekbones, luscious hair, stringy, hardened body, and so long in _everything_.

"My attractiveness has everything to do with cold beauty and nothing else. You John are a smorgasbord." John never thought to hear such a word from the usually precise Sherlock, and his expression said so.

Sherlock chuckled, and let his hands fell across John's hips, "You think you have a bit of a tummy, but I can tell you it's just a sign of comfort, happiness. You think your face is too broad, too flat, but it's has kindness and gentleness and love in it. You think you're beginning to sag, to melt, to turn into an old man past his prime. But you don't _see_." Sherlock ran his hands down John's chest, standing so close John felt the hair on his head brush with every one of his breaths.

His body clenched wherever Sherlock's chilled hands touched, tightening up in reflex, then relaxing. John could feel his cock slowly beginning to swell under this attention, this complete focus Sherlock had on his body. And it was comforting, arousing, ego-swelling even, that Sherlock looked absolutely engrossed in his perusal.

"So strong, muscled, nothing like me. Sturdy, solid, dense. I feel like I could lean on you for hours and you wouldn't move John. I feel so proud of you when you do something that regular men couldn't. I feel so enamored when you do things like this, you see yourself, maybe an aging, scarred man with a somewhat trim body. I feel so enamored that when you see that man, I see so much more, and you don't know what I see." It barely made sense, but John was more concerned with the hands creeping to his cock, grasping at the place thigh met body.

With a strong twist, Sherlock spun John so he was facing him, back to the mirror.

John stared wide eyed up at Sherlock, only a hairsbreadth from touching him, his own breath brushed against the man's collared shirt.

"Look at you John Watson," Sherlock smirked darkly, hands coming up to grip at John's strong back, spread like spiders over his shoulders and dig his fingers into his skin. "So thick in my sense, powerful in my mind. I can never get you out of it, you know, you think I can with cases and experiments, but you're always there." Sherlock dipped and took a deep breath, bringing his own scent closer to John's suddenly very sensitive nose.

John craned his neck to catch Sherlock's eye through the mirror, and very deliberately, clenched his ass cheeks to form that muscled pert thing he had before. Sherlock gave a deep breathe, as if all the air was being crushed out of his lungs by some giant hand. Those indescribable eyes roved down to light on the action, focusing so intently John was sure he was on fire.

"No," Sherlock whispered, one hand coming around to slide deliciously over the top of John's crease, as he continued to speak his fingers drifted lower, prying him apart, forcing him bare, "No, John Watson, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you." And a finger entered, and it was all John could do not to scream.

Sherlock was always that intense.

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Yes, I'm leaving it there ;P.


	8. Chapter 8

Seven!

THIS IS SMUT. PURE, UNADULTERATED SMUT.

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Living with Sherlock

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It was a hazy Saturday in London, murky grey skies, heavy humid air, and a sweltering weight of summer heat hanging over your head. The two living in 221B were as naked as they could be, with their modesty intact, (per John's orders of course, think of poor Mrs. Hudson.) With every fan they had blowing straight at the couch.

Sherlock, in just his pants, was sprawled like some kind of long limbed, boneless sculpture, appealing even still in his sweatiness. Curls stuck to his forehead, hating even the heat that arose from the contact with the fabric of the couch, Sherlock bemoaned his existence.

"This is unbearable." He said, throat moving, but remaining so still, John had to check for the movement of his chest to make sure he hadn't turned to marble. Sherlock's skin was just, so, _white_.

"We've done all we could to cool it off Sherlock, especially since 221c is under repair for that mold you grew down there." John reminded, tapping away at his laptop. Comparatively, John seemed fresh as rain, though sweating, it didn't nearly drip off him like the detective, and he lounged simply in light pajama pants and a regular shirt.

Sherlock's head swerved to glare at him. "It had ideal conditions for the species I wanted to germinate, it simply grew faster than anticipated."

Snorting, John nodded in mocking sympathy, "And then had the audacity to mutate into something that, what did the specialist say?" John inquired, always taking the opportunity to poke fun at the other, "ah yes, that had the potential to become airborne and create a new viral disease."

Sherlock grumbled in dissent, "Could not, she was exaggerating." He put a hand up to his neck and groaned, his deep voice rattling the couch. John couldn't tear his eyes away as that long fingered hand pressed against the sweaty expanse of his neck. God, Sherlock was attractive. Obviously, Sherlock noted his interest and couldn't help his smirk, the one smirk that John hated to see but secretly loved.

"Come now, John," he deliberately lowered his voice to a rumble, once that made John shiver, "There's other ways to cool off." He licked his lips, breathing deep, shifting his shoulders to the muscles played under his alabaster skin.

"Yes, how about some water?" John answered, heroically tearing his eyes form the temptation of Sherlock's skin. He stood, made it a step before Sherlock had latched onto him and tugged him down. Half-falling, John landed in Sherlock's barely covered lap, his pjs a thin barrier between them.

"John, lean back with me, come on." Sherlock coaxed, his dangerous hands kneading John's skin.

Against his better judgment, (the heat people, if he got any hotter he would combust!), John leant back under he was flushed with Sherlock. The detective felt like a pillar behind him, tensed, arms caging him down.

Giving a shuddering breath, John craned his neck to the side when he felt lips nipping at it. This was slowly becoming something a little more than what he had anticipated.

Nearly moaning, Sherlock tasted at John's skin. He didn't look like he was sweating, but John tasted like salt, and musk, and sex. John always tasted like sex to Sherlock.

Giving a growl, Sherlock ran his hands around his love's waist, tugging at the shirt until he could strip it off. Then it was bare skin pressing tightly together and they both gasped. Turning the doctors head to meet his own, Sherlock reveled in this strange control he hand over the doctor, sitting like this allowed for a shade of puppet and master, where Sherlock put him, John went. They kissed hotly for a few minutes, hands wandering, tongues moving within their mouths like sensual glistening dancers. Then, Sherlock slipped just the tips of his fingers into the top of the pjs, and came upon an arousing discovery.

"No pants, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock rumbled in his ear, hot breaths tickling the flesh, "naughty. How about we… free you up a bit." John tensed when Sherlock hitched his knees on the inside of the ex-soldiers, slowly dragging his legs apart with his own.

The motion did several things: a. it spread both their legs obscenely, b. it pressed Sherlock's rapidly hardening cock into the crease of John's arse, and c. it made John feel so very, very exposed.

Like a blushing virgin, John turned his face away and breathed heavily, hands nervously clutching Sherlock's thighs. And like the conquering demon, Sherlock smirked and rocked them in order to slide John's pjs down over the crest of his arse and off his legs. Now John was completely naked, spread, and at Sherlock's mercy.

This inflamed Sherlock so intensely, he was surprised he didn't burst into flame.

"So dirty, John," Sherlock murmured, sensing John's arousal over this feeling. This was a new kind of sexual play for them, mostly their sex had been contained to the bed, or the wall if they were both up for it. This was a slow kind of movement, tension rising to nearly stifling points. And oh god, this submission of Johns, tasted delicious.

John gave a moan, one hand coming up to grasp Sherlock's neck. There was now only the wet fabric of Sherlock's pants between them, and John felt it was so thin, that Sherlock's impressive cock would soon rip out of them in its hardness and dive straight into John. And wasn't that an image. Unable to help himself, John moved his hips, feeling ridiculously sexy in the way he undulated and Sherlock's violent reaction to it.

Sherlock, for his part, snarled. Then grasped John's hips and moved to his own beat, lust coursing through him like a tsunami. Fuck, he had never seen John move like that. He didn't k now the submissive little army doctor had hips like a belly dancer.

"Fuck, John, you want it so bad. Being so sexy, so wanton, but never touching that beautiful cock of yours." Sherlock shifted them forward until they were on the edge of the couch, and John was only just balancing on Sherlock.

"Why is that John?" he nibbled on the ear closest to him, melding their skin together as tightly as he could, letting John feel the tension and the power in his arms. Giving a muffled sound, John twisted so Sherlock's cock slid clumsily over his entrance.

"I have a feeling," John grunted, loving the slide of it and Sherlock's growl, "that if I did, you'd slap my hand away." And that was actually quite true.

"Good, love." Sherlock rumbled one hand leaving the delicious doctor to grab and throw one of the couch pillows onto the ground in front of them. It was the middle of the living room, but the door was closed. There was still that risk of someone just barging in, but that made it more exciting.

Gripping John by the base of his neck, long fingers spread out over the heaving chest, Sherlock whispered, "On your knees, my love." John's reaction was a full body twitch, then a squirm and a low moan.

John slid off Sherlock, his skin leaving the others with a wet _slick_ sound. He crawled over to the pillow, very, very aware of Sherlock's quick breath intake at the action. Putting his knees into the pillow, thankful for the comfort, John stood as tall as he could, back straight, cock thrusting forward. He met Sherlock's eyes, the lanky man who had not moved from his position, and just sat watching John get into position. John nearly whimpered.

Never before had John had the urge to submit. If anything, it was either take control, or share it. But this? Good God, this was new and exciting and embarrassing but oh so good at the same time. Here was Sherlock, who always seemed to gentle in sex, probably from lack of experience, planting his feet, thick cock on display through those soaked boxers, eyes _devouring John whole_.

"What do you want me to do, John," Sherlock smirked deviously, "I'm having trouble deciding. I could feed you my cock until you choke on my cum, I could push you down to your hands and knees and finger you until you cry for something larger, thicker. I could lick and taste every part of you, before slamming straight in, fucking you, pounding you through the floor." Sherlock had to take a moment to steady his breathing, hearing his voice say such things was affecting him just as it was affecting John, who wavered, shuddering in pleasure.

"What do you want?" Sherlock gave him the choice, because after that he wasn't going to let John do anything, he was all Sherlock's.

Concerning the answer, John had to fight to gain control of his voice, before whispered, "Oh god, Sherlock, all of it, everything, just fucking…augh." He couldn't even continue, his body was trembling with the want to touch himself. His hands trembled in their want to just touch his cock.

A devilish smirk crossed Sherlock's face, and he growled, "Good boy."

Sherlock stood, towering like a giant over John, who knelt like a pious man in church. To John, he felt nearly religious as he gazed at his detective, who was peeling his pants off to stand confidently natural in nothing. Sherlock was deliciously naked, right in front of John, but he couldn't move to touch. He had been told to kneel.

"You're shaking, love." Sherlock trailed his fingertips around John's shoulders as he circled him in slow, measured steps. John was shuddering, but it was from the lust coursing through him, the anticipation, the breathlessness he felt. He felt like he was slowly coming apart at the seams.

John stayed silent, eyes crawling up the pale expanse of sweating Sherlock like physical hands, and he could watch as Sherlock's body responded. Eventually he allowed himself to look at the swelled cock, violently red, and leaking already. Sherlock was very, very aroused.

Groaning, the tall detective came ot rest right in fornt of him, hands going to his blonde hair, directing him with strong pulls and pushes.

"Are you hungry John?" Sherlock's velvet, illegal voice, whispered, "are you _hungry_ for this?" the way it turned to a growl around the word hungry made John clench, and he was sure his prick gave a exultant leap against his thigh.

In answer, John moaned simultaneously as he fell forward, feeding himself the long member that was so tantalizingly close. Against the stilling of Sherlock's hands, John fought to suck, to move, his tongue greedily sweeping over every part it could reach, mouth tightening until his lover gave an audible gasp.

"Fine," It made John proud that he was able to make Sherlock Holmes pant in want, "Fine, if you want it that way." And those trmbling thighs next to his face solidified, hands grasped harder, and Sherlock began methodically face fucking John.

On his knees, John felt absolutely at the mercy of Sherlock, made worse by the way his muscles slumped, malleable in Sherlock's ferocity. It was incredible. John could barely keep his eyes open, from stinging pulls in his hair, the thudding of his head knocking into Sherlock's hips, the proximity of his abdomen in front of his eyes. It was a challenge ot breath, the rate of Sherlock's thrusts, both the pulls of his head and the movement of his hips, made it hard for John to breath. But he managed.

On his knees, John wouldn't trade this for the world. Sherlock above him was making such noises, whimpering, growling, grunting like some animal as he took, and took, and took his pleasure out of John. And it was over quite soon, Sherlock's thighs tightened, his body bowed, and his mouth opened to release one long keening sound, low, guttural, and breathless.

Sherlock slid from John's lips, kneeling down to catch his breath, propping himself on his heels to stare, amazed, into John's face.

John was busy licking at his face, swallowing that itchy feeling in his throat, bemoaning the fact he could barely taste Sherlock's spunk. He knew he looked a wreck though, red swollen lips, watery eyes, pink cheeks, breathing heavily.

Sherlock, though, liked it. After immediately checking first to see that John was okay, he noticed that not only he was, he had enjoyed it. What a surprise, Sherlock thought, a wicked smile crossing his face.

"Sherlock," John panted, voice croaky, _because of him_, "Sherlock, please, I need to cum."

Smiling slowly, Sherlock took control of his body again, loving the tender feeling in each limb. That was an amazing orgasm. Time to make sure John has the same.

"What did I say before, love?" Sherlock caressed John's flank, moving close, "I'm going to give you everything."

Letting out a whimper, John leaned heavily on Sherlock, questing for a kiss. Giving it to him, Sherlock moaned against the other's lips. Sherlock put everything into this kiss, doing his very best to get John so enamored, so dazed, that he couldn't tell which way was up. John, for his part, let himself be carried away by the hurricane that was Sherlock Holmes.

Tearing himself away, Sherlock travelled to John's neck to create his distraction there, as he slowly implemented his new idea. Carefully arranging them, Sherlock made sure John couldn't see straight before up and lifting. Deadlifting John straight from the ground, Sherlock gripped him tightly by the buttocks, clenching him close, wrapping those sturdy legs around his waist.

Dumbfounded, John clutched onto Sherlock, feeling at once too far off the ground, and incredibly aroused by Sherlock's deliberate show of strength. Giving a wonderful groan, John climbed closer to Sherlock, hips pumping to rub his erection against that taught stomach, lips and teeth nipping at the long neck and the slightly curled ear. Making sure to be noisy in his admiration and lust, John was beyond words as Sherlock growled and bit down on John as he pushed open his bedroom door.

The room was alight only form the window, dust giving it a smoky, hazy look. Sherlock placed John on the bed, ripping off the covers to just have the fitted sheet and _John_ on them. Seeing how hard his lover was, Sherlock felt it would be kinder to give him a bit of attention, so, one hand routing around for lube, the other curled around John's iron hard penis.

Giving a near shout, John trembled against the white backdrop, sweating now, hair sticking to his forehead, mouth open and his eyes unfocused with pleasure. Sherlock's cock was once again interested.

"Sherlock! Would you just touch me please!" John was going insane with want, trembling, gasping. Sherlock made a shocking noise, something desperate and raw tumbling out of his mouth. After that there was a flurry of movement, Sherlock seemed to be everywhere at once.

A hot kiss tangled their tongues together, a pale hand gripped at his thigh, allowing for that slim body to nestle between them grinding in wonderful carnal pleasure. Then a questing hand glided swiftly down over John's rump, fingers digging into every square inch of flesh they could find. Sherlock was atop him, grinding down hard, pushing with everything he could, panting hotly, teeth bared into John's mouth.

The smaller doctor cursed when Sherlock pushed the pads of his fingers violently against his entrance. They were dry, but made no move to enter, simply massaging into submission.

"Fuuuuuuuck." John groaned out, and since the doctor rarely ever used the word, it galvanized Sherlock even more.

"That's right baby," Sherlock's deep voice vibrated between them, one hand carefully forcing John to turn over onto his stomach, baring his vulnerable neck and back to him. Huffing with a strange mixture of anticipation, excitement, and lust, John went, digging his face into the white bedding.

Still atop him, Sherlock made sure to warm the lube as best he could, and rubbing his hard cock against the cradle of John's thighs.

"My dear John," Sherlock whispered, lips tenderly laving wet kisses along the shorter man's spine. John gave a broken moan, taken apart by Sherlock's touches. When he felt the slick fingers rubbing the oily substance along his crease, John shuddered and spread his knees as best he could, without knocking Sherlock's precarious perch over him.

To Sherlock, John seemed akin to a beautiful canvas, the dusty lighting falling cross the tan of his back with long shadows, the white scars raising little lines themselves. And when he touched that dark private place of John's the other man's knees spread, opening himself up to him, pleading with his body.

Sherlock growled, snarling at the effect this man had on him, this John Watson, who had entered his life and now was his life. The center of it.

"Look at you John, so dirty, so slutty, spreading your legs for a man. The only man to ever see you like this." Sherlock's eyes gleamed in the not-quite-dark room, he pushed the flat of his thumb against John's opening, feeling how the muscle fluttered, both trying to shut him out and open wider to suck him in.

"I'm going to put my cock in you, John, my long, hard cock, is going to be _inside_ you." John shivered against, thrusting back against that pressure touching him, wanting Sherlock to dominate him fully.

Sherlock carefully prepared John, sinking his fingers deeper and deeper until they were all but sucking him back when he tried to pull out. John's moans increased, but he was a good boy, he didn't touch himself even though he so badly wanted to.

Eventually, Sherlock pulled away to slick up his cock, forgoing the condom this time as he was fully aware the both of them were clean and safe. Never before had they gone without and Sherlock anticipated the increased feeling.

"I'm going to take care of you John," He murmured as he took his place above and behind him, climbing up the man's sweating body to hover, "I'm going to wring every last drop of pleasure from you. I want you babbling, unable to speak from my touches. God John, I'm going to take you over. Like a king conquering his own country." Sherlock lowered himself to lie directly atop John, His cock head bumping up to the winking entrance he so desperately wanted to be buried in.

But he waited, as John breathed shallowly, allowing him to get used to Sherlock's full wait over his back.

Finally, John couldn't take the wait, lifting his hips up and behind he managed to catch the waiting cock at just the right angle, prodding it into him just the merest centimeter.

John made a noise that was drowned out by Sherlock's own.

"Sherlock, my love, please," John scrabbled to clench other the hands Sherlock placed in front of him, melding every inch of skin he could to the other, "Please just _take_ me." Sherlock's teeth were bared in an animalistic smile against his back.

Without ceremony, Sherlock simultaneously hitched his hips up and drove deep into John while sinking his teeth in the sensitive place on his shoulder. Tearing a half scream out of his lover's throat, Sherlock rocked shifting them both until John was face down in the mattress, propped on his knees, ass sticking up and penetrated by Sherlock's desperately hard dick.

And then he started to move, dragging reluctantly out just to thrust straight back in. Sherlock, in his infinite knowledge knew how to just lightly catch John's prostate as he moved, and the increased pleasure from it sent John whirling.

They faded out of time, too invested, too focused, too washed away by the feeling of it all. Sherlock thrust deep into John, melded to his back, crouched over him so tightly, like a personal gargoyle, John could barely move.

Rutting like animals, Sherlock was losing himself, he thrust harder, he pushed John deeper into the bed, he grabbed onto the other's cock and didn't let go yet didn't pump.

"Take you," Sherlock mumbled, voice nearly soundless in its depth, "take you, taking all of you. Because your mine, mine to take, mine to own, fuck, John you're perfect." John whimpered, mewled, groaned, shouted back, unable to form words.

It ended like a crashing wave, crested, building higher and higher until with a feral scream, Sherlock pounded desperately into his lover, mindless in his orgasm, stuttering, pumping his wet seed so deep into him he could never get it out. Never be free of Sherlock's touch.

Gasping for air, Sherlock drew out of John, falling to the side. John, for his part, seemed to still be riding on clouds, lying in a puddle of his own release.

"Oh, fucking, god." John eventually whispered, when Sherlock was nearly sure he was asleep.

Chuckling, he tugged John away from his mess and curled around him, putting loving, thankful kisses around his neck.

"Oh John." Sherlock whispered, too many emotions in his voice to locate and understand, but John simply put his hand in Sherlock's and slumped like a fallen log.

"I'm going to be sore tomorrow." the smile in his voice belied his words and he shifted with a tired sigh, "And I feel you dripping out of me. That's not gonna come out easy, you great git." But Sherlock was curious, even in his post-coital haze, and his hand went down to see. A new wetness, not of the lube, but of Sherlock himself dribbled slowly out of that beautiful body and it filled Sherlock with something he could not describe.

"Good." Sherlock mumbled, "Now I'll be there forever."

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HAWT.


	9. Chapter 9

Three!

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Living with Sherlock

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"John, this is Skull, Skull, this is John." Sherlock held the skull aloft in one hand, facing the both of them. Resisted the urge to giggle shamelessly at this strange new act of Sherlock's, John gave it the solemnity the lanky detective thought he should.

So, he schooled his face into something polite and said, "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Turning the skull so he could peer into every crevice of it, though he probably knew it all by heart, Sherlock started to speak, "He was once a case of mine, a gentlemen that died, but had virtually no sign of cause of death. No heart attack, no blunt force, nothing showing up in scans or tests." Sherlock gave what could be called a fond smile, "It was the best case of my life."

John could see that, Sherlock going absolutely nuts over a case he could not solve. He had so much fun normally with the ones they get regularly.

"How did you solve it?" John asked, and was blessed with a concentrated look from Sherlock. Smiling, Sherlock felt happy that John would just immediately assume he had completed the puzzle, such loyalty…

"I didn't." Sherlock admitted, only the tiniest tone of indignation escaped him, "I couldn't solve this case, there is no evidence or clues or any kind of trail that I could pick up to solve it." His face twisted, "So I kept Skull, so I could look at him and always remember. So I could talk to something that had the upper hand over me."

It was a stretch for John to understand, but when he did he couldn't help smiling. Sherlock needed Skull, in the time before John, to talk to, to speak to, to remind him that he is not god. He can't know everything. That some things are above him.

John held out a hand for Skull, silently. Sherlock looked at him before slowly handing the object over, as if wondering if it was a good idea.

John examined it; it was a regular skull, nothing odd about it. That was interesting though, that a man died for no conceivable reason. It was a regular skull, ordinary, male, middle age, large mouth, high forehead, but a strange dent in the lower left, right below the ear. Fingering it, John frowned.

Sherlock snorted, "A childhood injury, no long-term effects, was only an abrasion in the bone, no effect on the tissue or blood flow." His nose scrunched up, "useless."

John, on the other hand, was interested. "What if it had been given another hit, it seems rather deep for something in childhood. If he had been hit again, in the same spot, even weeks before his death, it could have pinched things. Like blood or specialized nerves. I couldn't tell you unless you have the brain matter." John looked up sharply, "Please tell me you don't have Skull's brain matter in our flat."

Waving a hand negligently, neither confirming nor disagreeing, Sherlock stared contemplating at Skull, then at John.

Then, he stood retrieved Skull from John's hand and placed him back onto the mantle. Returning to John, Sherlock simply put his feet up, threw his arms over the back of the couch and turned the telly on.

Blinking, John turned his gaze from Sherlock to Skull then back. "Don't you want to find out? I would have thought you'd be raring to." Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Don't need Skull anymore." Sherlock grumbled, slipping low in the couch to what seemed like the most uncomfortable position, but John knew the strange man loved it.

John felt like questioning some more, before something like a revelation hit him. Sherlock used the skull to talk to before, to rage at, to organize his thoughts, and to remind him he doesn't know everything. Sherlock wanted to keep that reminder, that he couldn't solve the case. But also…he didn't need to talk to it anymore. He had….

John.

Feeling like some sappy romantic, with his heart fluttering, smiling foolishly, John settled down into the couch and made sure to touch Sherlock in several places. Sherlock nudged him in return, and John smiled even harder.

Sappy romantic fools that they were.

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Scientific things come straight out of my English major ass, so try to take them in the spirit their offered. :D


	10. Chapter 10

Three!

A suspect is caught between Sherlock, John, and Lestrade and his gang. He makes a choice, hoping to take down the littlest. It was a bad choice.

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Living with Sherlock

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"I'm from the military Sherlock, there are some habits you pick up there that you can't let go of." John tried to explain, picking up the sheet the detective had carelessly tossed, "One of them is trying to be as cleanly as possible. You've got to admit, I let you get away with a lot." He gestured to the quite messy flat, taking solace in the fact his room was Spartan clean.

"You've been living the civilian life for nearly four years, John, I'm sure those instincts of yours have dulled." Sherlock mused, his fingers propped up against each other. He knew that in a few minutes Lestrade would call for a case he just had to be patient.

John twitched, "Are you calling me a civilian?" it was irrational to be so offended by it, but he was. "Calling me soft?!" Sherlock peering open his eye and gave the 'duh' look to John. Snorting, John proceeded to turn his back on him.

Lestrade did happen to call, about twenty minutes after Sherlock had seen him on the nes, hounded by those horrible people called 'reporters'. John did break his silence to follow him, of course, and within a handful of hours the two Baker Street Boys were crouched in wait in the alley behind a jewellery store, waiting for Lestrade and his police to flush the thief turned murderer out to them. It was damp, as London always is, and mildly chilly, and John resolutely refused to shiver in his beaten old black jacket. Sherlock would assuredly notice and force John away to be warm. He could be mothering like that now and then.

A siren went off, sounding only a few streets away, and a bang told them the thief had left the store in a rush. Authoritative shouts to 'Hold!' came from the opposite alley entrance then the pounding of feet. Sherlock swept out like a great bat to step straight in the way of the fleeing man, who seemed only a few inches shorter than Sherlock.

John stepped out as well, when the man took a desperate glance to the little side alley that cut into the larger one. London was full of alleys, just as it was full of rain.

"Stay where you are, Mr. Morley," Sherlock said, voice smug and victorious, "You are the one who's been breaking into every jewellery store this side of London. Just so happened that the owner was in the last one hm? Pity she had to die."

Mr. Morley looked like a cornered rat, from behind came Lestrade and his policemen, in front of him stood Sherlock, imposing, intimidating Sherlock. And to the left was John, small, compact little John standing infront of his only escape.

It was a testament to John that he say Morley's hand slip into his waistband, when Sherlock (the genius), Lestrade (detective inspector), and the policemen (FUCKING POLICEMEN) didn't. It was alos a testament ot John's strength that when the bigger, wider, taller Morley threw himself on John, knife flashing in the dim light, that John didn't fall.

He stood his ground, and those reflexes Sherlock had been mocking earlier? Yeah, those came back. Too bad for Mr. Morley.

"John!" Sherlock cried in alarm, when Morley launched himself onto the army doctor. Morley was going for a quick stab and run, hoping to barrel John over with his size, he was nearly a head taller, and give himself a good run in the enclosed space behind the doctor. That way, the others couldn't follow him, they'd be concerned with the small man and Morley would be home free.

That was the plan.

But, sadly, when he went to stab, John's hand flashed out, twisted, pulled in a different direction and three things happened at once. 1. Morley's momentum carried him through John's twist. 2. A terrible popping sound filled the air as Morley's arm was displaced out of his socket. 3. Morley went down, John's knee in his back and a gun to the back of his head.

It happened in a split second, Lestrade hadn't even been able to order his men not to shoot (lest they hit John). Sherlock hadn't been able to grab Morley and drag him away for some one on one time of what not to do with Sherlock around. Lesson number one being: Never. Touch. John.

So, there they were, one instant Sherlock having the worst moment of his life playing out, (Morley falling atop John, John gasping as a knife slid between his ribs, a bleeding, dying John lying there at Sherlock's feet) and the next, John was snarling at him to _get over there_ and _arrest the bastard_.

Lestrade got there first, cuffing Morley, ignoring the way the man moaned when his shoulder shifted. The grey haired detective was gaping at John, mouth open and everything. The police men were whispering to each other, awed glances being cast at the little army doctor. Sherlock was blinking down at John, who was trying to speak to him. Tuning in, Sherlock listened to the melodious voice of John, his john, not bleeding on the pavement but instead calling him a buffoon.

"- slow, civilian, ha! Tell me that now you absolute-" John couldn't continue, as Sherlock had enveloped him in his arms and snogged the life out of him. Gasping when Sherlock finally released him, dazed and with red lips, John was speechless. As was Lestrade and his team, by the way, but Sherlock? No.

"Magnificent John, just magnificent. Thought you could take him out hm? He is of course the smallest, cutest of your three options, but bad move, Mr. Morley, bad move." Sherlock continued to gloat as they dragged Morley out, gasping and shaking in pain to the cruisers parked at the mouth of the alley.

"Oh hold still, you big baby. It's just dislocated." John marched up, told the two holding Morley to not left him fall, cause this would most likely knock him out. With experience ease, John reached up, grasped the injured shoulder and the limply hanging arm and had yanked it into place. There was another of those popping sound, Morley screamed hoarsely and then went limp. Huffing, John returned to Sherlock, bid goodnight to Lestrade, and took his detective home.

Later that night, Sherlock slid into bed with a snoring John. Kissing him tightly on the forehead, Sherlock allowed silly emotions (Pride, love, awe, relief, happiness) to break open in his chest. A goofy smile split his face and his silently giggled, counting on John not being able to see him.

From that day onward, John was given a new respect form the police force, as rumors that the tiny doctor had taken down a man three times his size, broken his arm in several places before healing them back together afterward circulated London's force. Sherlock didn't tease John about his fading military instincts anymore; instead, he found ways to make them come into their daily lives. How? Experimenting, of course.

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Ahh I thought it would be good for everyone to see how totally bad-ass John can be, and not even know it.


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